In Annual Full Moon Werewolf Ball by Sean Michael, a chance encounter a year ago changed Gramm’s life. When he runs into Damien, he finally gets his chance to confront his demons, but things are not what they seem.

Originally published in Masks Off and as a stand alone. The publisher has changed.

Excerpt:

Grammercy snorted at the sign. It was a bunch of people pretending to be fantasy creatures. Some wore full body costumes, others just masks and tails. At midnight, according to the sign, they went out and had a “howling.”

It was a romanticized, unrealistic, silly ball. These masked werewolves had no idea what it was like to be a werewolf.

Gramm was different.

The face he wore under the wolf mask was not so different from said mask. It’d been that way for just over a year. One bite from some random hook-up had changed his life forever. That first full moon… Shit, there had been nothing romantic about the first time he’d changed.

He had it under control now, more or less. He knew when it was coming, knew where to go not to get into trouble when it overtook him. Still, it kept him away from people, especially at night. Here he could let his wolf hang out, and nobody would look twice. Maybe he could even hook up.

He paid his cover charge and stalked into the place, the driving beat hitting him immediately and calling to the feral beast inside him. He pushed into the crowd, men, women, all dressed up as wolves gyrating against him.

Gyrating.

Christ on a crutch. He might be desperate, but he wasn’t this desperate. Why had he come again?

The music got faster, and he could smell need, arousal, heat. It was going to make him fucking crazy, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to just revel in it or get out.

That was when he smelled it.

Another male. Another familiar male. That little fuck who had bitten his thigh a year ago. Gramm was going to kill the bastard.

He scanned the room, cursing all the fucking wolf masks. No way was he going to be able to pick the guy out of the crowd just by looking. He was going to have to do it by scent.

He stilled, blocking out the bodies writhing against his own, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. With his nose working overtime and his mouth slightly open, he pulled in all the scents around him, trying to isolate the other real werewolf.

Rich, spicy, with a hint of whiskey and a wash of sex—the man was here. Grammercy hadn’t even known his fucking name. All he’d thought with was his cock. The guy had been perfect. Wanton and needy, lean and hungry for him. He’d thought the biting had just been a part of that. He’d been fucking wrong, but now he could confront the guy and beat the shit out of him.

He made sure he had the scent solidly in his nose, then squared his shoulders and began pushing his way through the crowd. Gramm caught sight of him—long dark hair, bright green eyes, a huge scar on one cheek. That was new. Maybe the man had bitten someone who bit back.

Sights set now, Gramm stalked his prey, pushing past the people playing at being wolves. The guy was sliding through the crowd, moving faster, avoiding him. The fucker knew exactly who he was. It made him growl, low in his throat.